The 10 Dishes That Made My Career: Erik Anderson of Catbird Seat

Erik Anderson plays it close to the vest when talking about his restaurant, the Catbird Seat in Nashville. “Talking about my food is really hard for me. I would rather people just came and ate it, you know?” If you took his word for it, you might not catch the fact that the place has been blowing minds and stacking awards ever since it opened in late 2011: Bon Appetit’s 10 Best New Restaurants of 2012. GQ’s, too. Semifinalist for the James Beard Award for Best New Restaurant. Food & Wine’s Best New Chefs class of 2012. And the raves keep coming.

Anderson’s reticence might have something to do with the fact that he got his start in the kitchen under his parents, as an underage dishwasher in the diner they owned during his childhood. Or with the fact that after working in Chicago kitchens for a number of years, he left to become a road manager for bands including Alkaline Trio—or, as he characteristically put it, “Someone offered me a job traveling, and I thought, Eh, alright. I didn’t plan on doing it long, and then before you know it eight years had gone, and it was like, Shit!” When he came back to the kitchen, he went all in; to the French Laundry, then to Minneapolis, where he worked his way up to chef de cuisine of Sea Change under Beard winner Tim McKee, before taking a break to stage at Noma as final prep for opening his own place.

The Catbird Seat, which Anderson built with fellow chef Josh Habinger, another Minneapolis ex-pat, has just 32 seats at a counter that wraps around the chefs’ work station, like a Jetsons-styled Benihana. In that tiny space, they turn out some of the most intricate—and soulful—“tweezer food” in the country. And, ironically, what could be considered a bland Midwestern heritage has actually worked to their advantage; though they’re working in Nashville, they’re not hit with the usual Kentucky-fried comparisons that can sell short the pure skill of Southern masters like Sean Brock. When Anderson roasts abalone and serves it with red-eye gravy, it’s because something in the meaty mollusk tweaks the same sense receptors as its usual partner, country ham—not because it’s just like mama used to do.

That freedom allows Anderson to take his menus wherever he damn well pleases—just don’t call it “fusion.” Off-duty, his tastes run high and low, but largely handheld; tacos, sandwiches, and hot dogs all make the no-nonsense chef’s list of 10 life-changing dishes. From his go-to late-night drunk food to an accidental El Bulli reservation, Anderson takes us through the food that keeps inspiring him.

Pickled Herring

Every New Year’s Eve, as far back as I can remember, there’s always been pickled and creamed herring at our table. It’s something that reminds me of the holidays; it reminds me of being with my family, of being together, which gets rarer and rarer the older you get. Now it’s kind of morphed into a Christmas Eve thing, because New Year’s I’m working.
My mother is Mexican, and my dad is Norwegian, so it was always a pretty interesting mix of stuff going on. Now there could be some tamales; there’s always a whole rib roast, there’s always potato sausage, there’s always limpa, which is a Swedish rye. There’s always herring. Other characters could make a visit once or twice, but those are the staples.

Chicago-Style Hot Dog

The Chicago hot dog is something I think every Chicagoan takes for granted; you grow up with them, you eat them—every real Chicagoan should love a Chicago hot dog. But when you don’t have it, you learn to appreciate it even more. I live in Nashville, and you can’t get a good Chicago hot dog here to save your life. It’s miserable. So whenever I go, I could be in the airport at O’Hare, and if I have a layover that’s the first thing I’ll do.
It’s got to be a poppy seed bun, a naturally cased Vienna hot dog that snaps when you bite into it, mustard, onion, pickles, that neon green relish, tomato, and sport peppers. Sometimes cucumber’s good—there’s a place I like to go called Byron’s that will put cucumbers on there, and there’s a place called Gene and Jude’s where they put the fries in the bun with the hot dog. I think they just throw the fries in there and wrap it all together, but it kind of morphs, so you go to pick up the dog and the fries are inside the hot dog and it’s pretty awesome. Gene and Jude’s is a place where, when my mom and dad were kids, they’d go out and date. You can sit around forever. My brother played music for years—there used to be this heavy metal club next to it called the Thirsty Whale, and when I was 13 and he was 21, he’d drag me along to his shows and sneak me in, and then we’d always get hot dogs at Gene and Jude’s afterward.

Menudo

Menudo is a thing I remember my grandmother making, on my mom’s side. It stands out because I could never figure out how something could smell so disgusting while it was cooking and be so delicious when it’s done—my grandmother would actually tell everyone to leave the house when she was cooking it. I remember eating that stuff as a kid; whenever I was home sick my dad would take me to this deli in Chicago and we’d get liverwurst sandwiches. I would never think twice about eating liver or brains or anything like that, I never was picky about things.
That was my first experience with how, back then, people would use every part of the animal; you never let anything go to waste. And how parts like that can be transformed from something that smells horrible to something that can be extremely wonderful to eat.

Banh Mi

Growing up, one of my best friends was half-Polish and half-Vietnamese. His father had met his mother during the Vietnam War, and after the war had gone back for her, and they raised a family. I remember when we were kids she would always cook for Lunar New Year—she made the most amazing egg rolls—so I was exposed to it super young. I loved it, but when I started cooking and understanding more about French cooking and Asian cooking, you realize it’s such a beautiful combination. When France occupied Vietnam, I think the Vietnamese really embraced certain things about French cooking. When I was little, I thought it just tasted good, but then when you get older and you understand cooking a little better, you understand how amazing that is. Banh mi sandwiches are an amazing example; you know, there’s the baguette and the terrine and the pâtés. It’s pretty cool.
I moved out of the house at an early age and moved to downtown Chicago, and because I had that early exposure it made me want to seek out things uptown, where all the Vietnamese restaurants were. I would go in by myself and order things that I had no idea about—her cooking when we were little opened up the door for me to be more receptive to things like that. I wasn’t afraid to go into a Vietnamese restaurant by myself at 16 and order stuff that I had no idea what it was.

Tacos al Pastor

In Chicago, I used to work at a place called Riviera, which was a concert venue, for extra money. They had this little taco shop across the street, and tacos al pastor was the only thing they sold. That and Jarritos, the Mexican sodas. It was the first time I’d ever had them, and they were just delicious. They had the huge spit with the pineapple, the guy would cut it off the spit and they would crisp it up on the flattop and that was it. The one thing that they sold. To this day, it’s still my favorite taco.
It came from Lebanese people settling in Mexico, and kind of bringing those [traditions] together. I despise “fusion” cooking—I just think it’s lame—but fusing flavors… Like, I would never try to make sushi, you know. I think it’s cheap when people try to do that. But I think if you’re borrowing a flavor, as long as you’re still maintaining the integrity of it, that’s okay.

Classic Bar-Style Cheeseburger

The cheeseburger is one of my favorite things, especially when you’re kind of drunk. But I’m kind of a stickler for the classic bar cheeseburger: American cheese, shitty ground beef, a nice bun, lettuce, onion, tomato. American cheese is the only cheese that belongs on a cheeseburger, and I’m a sucker for a good secret sauce. Let’s be honest: McDonald’s Big Mac sauce tastes good. Whenever I make cheeseburgers, I always try to make something that tastes as similar as possible. I’m not a fan of the brioche—I want something like a soft potato bun, or a milk bun. I don’t want a duck burger, you know what I mean? Some things don’t need to be reinvented, some things just need to be thought about. Don’t reinvent my cheeseburger, but when you’re making it, just put some thought into it.
We would make them when I was a kid, but the first kind of eye-opening one was when I was living in Milwaukee, there was this place called Kopp’s that was owned by this German guy. It was a custard stand, and it was like the epitome of German efficiency; all the stainless steel was polished, everything was perfect, there’d be sheets of custard pouring out of the machines. The burgers there were just incredible. I was in my early 20s, and I realized, This is what a cheeseburger is. They were simple, it wasn’t anything fancy, but again, it was well-thought-out.

Toro at Sushi Nozawa (Los Angeles)

Years ago, the first really eye-opening time I had sushi was a place called Nozawa in Los Angeles. I remember having a toro handroll and it was fucking life-changing. I mean, now it’s not very sustainable—it’s not sustainable at all—and people don’t want to serve it, but it was delicious, I’m not going to lie about that. I wasn’t really into sushi before, but it was something I knew I wanted to like, if that makes sense. I was in Seattle the first time I had it—it was good, I liked it, but a few months later I was in Los Angeles with a friend of mine who brought me to Nozawa, and it was like, Oh, this is what it’s supposed to taste like.

Scrambled Eggs with Pickled Pigs’ Feet at Piccolo (Minneapolis, MN)

Doug Flicker was the chef at Auriga, where I worked, and after that closed he went to a place called Piccolo, which is still open, in Minneapolis. The first time I went there, I had this. It was a really simple dish of beautifully scrambled eggs and pickled pigs’ feet, and just a little bit of white truffle. It was just so simple, but so delicious. Doug is one of those cooks where there could be 100 different cooks making a dish, and I could pick his out of them all. He has a very distinctive cooking style, and this just kind of epitomizes what he does and what he’s about. Simple but amazing—one of those really heart-warming and soul-satisfying things.
He was the first chef I had who truly taught me to love food, and love cooking, and understand that it's not a job, it’s a lifestyle. You can’t leave your restaurant and go home and forget about it, you know what I mean? If you really care about it, in order to do it properly and be successful at it, it has to be a lifestyle. Doug was the first person to show me what was good about food and what was good about working in restaurants.

Abalone con Panceta at El Bulli (Spain)

I got a chance to eat at El Bulli the August before they closed. It all started with a bunch of us sitting around in Minneapolis. We were really close friends, but we didn’t always get a chance to see each other, because we all worked in restaurants. Sunday was always the common day off, so Sundays we’d go to our friend Jim’s house and make brunch and hang out and catch up. So one day, Jim was like, “Hey, if I could get a reservation at El Bulli, would you guys want to go?” and we said, “Yeah, of course.” A month later, he was like, “Alright, I got a four-top,” and we thought, Oh shit, I guess we’ve got to start saving our money.
I’ve always loved abalone, and I’ve always loved ham, so to me this was the one dish that really stood out. It was just ham fat with little mushrooms, and a roasted abalone. It was really, really savory and really unctuous in your mouth. The meal as a whole was just incredible—the stuff tableside that they were doing, every table was getting a slightly different menu—it was mindblowing. I won’t say that every single dish was the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted, but it was the greatest restaurant experience I’ve ever had. There are two sides to food, and [El Bulli served the type] that hits you mentally; it doesn’t really hit your soul too much. One is not better than the other—it’s always nice to have a good mix—but I don’t think people should have gone to El Bulli just because they wanted to have dinner and get full. They should go because they want to get their brains scintillated.

Pigeon at Catbird Seat

Pigeon is probably my favorite fowl to eat. It’s this very small, very rich bird, just three or four bites—just this amazingly delicious little creature. They’re great smoked, they’re great roasted; I just think they’re fantastic. You don’t see them a lot in this country—they’re not as common as they are if you go to Europe. The first time I ever had them, I was working at Auriga, in Minneapolis. Before, I’d go to Asian markets and I’d always see these tiny little weird birds, frozen, and think, Oh, that’s a pigeon, weird. But when you get them and they’re cooked properly, it’s a completely different thing.
When we opened up [at Catbird Seat] I wanted to, as much as possible, always have a pigeon dish on the menu. A really classic dish is pigeons roasted in hay, but the way our kitchen is laid out, you really can’t roast entire birds—I would love to, but it’s not much of a reality. The hay and the pigeon go really well together, and at the time I was messing around with yogurt and pigeon, because I think yogurt has a really nice acidity that cuts the richness of the bird.
I wanted to figure out, How do we infuse the hay flavor into the yogurt? So we roast the pigeon; we use the thigh bone and the leg and the foot so it looks like a weird little beast. We usually leave it as close to whole as possible—I think it’s important for people to realize that it is an animal. We pair it with yogurt that is infused with sweetgrass hay. We always have a variation of that on the menu. We’ll change it up, but that’s the classic Catbird pigeon dish.

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